Appearances and Deductions
by Karen-the-Great
Summary: When Sherlock comes into the flat all bloody and brandishing a harpoon, John isn't very surprised. In fact, he's getting kicks out of the whole situation. Sherlock can't help but poke at John too. What else can you expect from the dream team? My version of what happened in The Hounds of Baskerville episode, when Sherlock decided to surprise John with another...surprise.


**My Twist on what happened in Sherlock season 2, episode 2 when Sherlock returned to the flat, looking like he just came back from fighting off zombies or...something like that. I don't know, maybe he did and we were all just too oblivious of the signs nature was giving us. Sherlock may have saved us from getting our brains eaten...anyway, we'll never really know and now I'm just blabbing and this whole theory is starting to sound stupid, so, I'll just shut up. Added a bit of Johnlock because...well, who doesn't love this couple? Anyway enjoy!**

John stared. He stared very intently, taking in the appearance of his flatmate, who, at the moment, did not seem to be entirely aware of how...odd he looked. In his unawareness, Sherlock still stood in the middle of the living area, covered in blood and brandishing a harpoon. Despite his intent staring, John still did not find any shock in the fact that Sherlock looked as if he just murdered someone, considering said man's past history of unexpected doings. John simply blinked and pursed his lips tightly, wondering what the occasion would be this time that required such...brute.

"Well, that was tedious," Sherlock spat, inspecting the harpoon he carried.

"You went on the tube like that?" John asked, practically appalled at the other man's carelessness. He still had a slight quirk to his lips nonetheless.

Sherlock's eyes quickly flicked over towards John, before settling on the harpoon again. He gave an exasperated sigh and twirled the harpoon once in his hand, still in the appearance of a wild man.

"None of the cabs would take me," Sherlock seethed. Obviously, he payed no mind to how inappropriate he looked, otherwise he wouldn't seem so unperturbed, John believed.

John gave out a short laugh, bringing a hand to his lips to cover a smile. He averted his eyes to the window for no more than half a minute, observing the world outside. Cars, cabs, bikers, you name it, baker street was busy, like always. The silence between them was light and comfortable, simply a passing moment; enjoyable. John shook his head, another short laugh escaping his lips, before facing his flatmate again.

"I would hope so," he said, a chuckle added.

Sherlock took a glance at John, perplexed in the sense of why he did not understand his agitation. He temporarily forgot about the bloody harpoon, narrowing his eyes at John in confusion, asking for an explanation for his inability to apprehend. It only took John a couple of seconds before he succumbed into a fit of laughter at Sherlock's lack of awareness to the situation.

"Look at you," he said, gesturing towards Sherlock, "You look like a bloody mess, quite literally in fact, I wouldn't have even stopped to give you a lift."

Sherlock looked down at himself, clearly still missing John's point, but now slightly aware of his mess. John's laughter died down, a smile still unable to leave his features. When Sherlock looked up he raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow, not entirely sure of how it was all so amusing. John stared back at him, the feeling of his painful laughter sitting, uncomfortably, in the pit of his stomach, making it almost hard to breathe.

"And I'm sure they didn't want to deal with the mess you would've left behind. Besides..." John leaned forward and crinkled his nose, "You stink."

"Shut up," Sherlock teased, a smirk gracing his lips.

"Only if you tell me where you got that bloody poker stick. What in God's name were you doing with that anyway?" John gestured towards the harpoon.

"This," Sherlock said, bringing his attention back to his weapon, "Is a harpoon and as you already know...I have connections."

"Yes, but what were you doing with it?"

"Nothing special, just a bit of an experiment."

"Ah, and that is my cue to prepare some tea," John said. He got up out of his chair and headed into the kitchen area. Sherlock always took to tea after an experiment. Break time, John guessed, never really questioning it. Maybe, it helped him think, who knew? Sherlock Holmes is a strange man. Very strange indeed.

"That would be absolutely to die for, yes." Sherlock said, "...Unless, in fact, it really was poisoned, hm."

"Don't even think about it!" John shouted from the kitchen.

Sherlock silently smirked to himself, sitting down in his favorite chair and leaning the harpoon up against its side. He glanced around the flat, observing its odds and ends, trying to find some clue to what John had been doing before he came home. He could tell he had been on his laptop. It was half open and a mug was left beside it on the table. Not to mention the chair was messily pushed aside, like it always is when John leaves the desk. He must have been writing his blog, Sherlock guessed. Averting his eyes, he further searched the room, not finding anything considerably, well, new. Nothing really happened around the flat while John was home alone, all the nonsense usually pertained to Sherlock. His boredom was soon lifted when John walked into the room, a tray in his hands.

"Here you are," John said, handing Sherlock his tea. He sat in his own loveseat, with a cup for himself.

Sherlock took slow sips from his tea, observing John as he did so. The small man had currently picked up the newspaper that was sitting on the nearside coffee table, flipping to the last page he had been on form that morning. As he read, Sherlock picked up on his different facial expressions, changing whenever he read something he found interesting. John sipped his tea without looking away from the paper, into whatever it was he was reading. It was quite amusing in Sherlock's perspective. He found this silent moment endearing. As the minutes ticked by, Sherlock smiled, a funny, little thought gracing his genius. He glanced up at John again and cleared his throat.

"You know, John," Sherlock began, grabbing his companion's attention, "I've been thinking these passed few minutes."

"When do you ever stop thinking?" John teased, lifting his eyes from the paper. Sherlock snorted.

"Well, it's not much of a thought, more like an observation of sorts," Sherlock said. "Throughout the course of our companionship, I've noticed something considerably amusing about you that I find I must share. That is, John, you seem to be quite the little housewife," Sherlock said, smiling over the brim of his teacup.

"And what, might I ask, brought you to that deduction?" John chuckled, glancing down at his paper again.

Sherlock set his teacup on the coffee table, leaning forward and pressing his elbows against his knees. He knotted his fingers together and brought them to his lips, Sherlock's usual thinking stance. He stared for a while, grabbing the shorter man's attention. John put his paper down and crossed his arms over his chest, staring back at Sherlock.

"What?" He asked softy, smiling lightly.

"...You're very caring, in a feminine sort of way," Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing slightly.

" What? I can't be caring in a manly way?" John's smile grew in amusement.

Sherlock leaned forward, quirking his lips at John's comment. He hummed in content, before smiling behind his hands.

"Isn't caring in a manly way leaning more towards me, not that I am? Besides, you're too good spirited to think like a stoic, thick headed brute."

"That may be so, but I don't think you care in a manly way either. Too much of a Holmes to do that. You have your own, private level. One where you can be as narcissistic as you want and care on a lower scale, that way you don't have to trouble yourself with the kinds of feelings all us simpletons deal with."

Sherlock deeply chuckled, knowing the man was right, but relishing in the fact that he knew so much about him. "I care...only not up to your standards. Just don't tell Mycroft, he'll think I've gone soft."

John laughed.

"Anyway," Sherlock said, "Besides your undying affection, I've also observed that you're a bit of a clean freak."

"I would have to be with all of your messy experiments littering the kitchen table!" John laughed. "I have to cook there, you know."

"Another fact," Sherlock noted. "You cook too much. Mrs. Hudson is downstairs, she'd cook for us any day, but you do it on your own. Not that I'm complaining, whenever I find the time to eat, the food always tastes superb."

"I'm not gonna slave Mrs. Hudson around all day, she already does enough. Besides, I like to cook, passes the time. You really should eat more, on that note."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock says dismissively, waving his hand. "But aside from that, I always find you taking care of me whenever you can. You wash my clothes, make my bed, cook my food, goodness even help solve my cases...if you're not a housewife, then I don't know what else you could be."

"Well," John began, clearing his throat, "It seems, Mr. Holmes, that we have grown quite a bit on each other, don't you think, darling?" John chuckled, earning himself a laugh from Sherlock.

"I wouldn't mind a little wife around the flat actually," Sherlock said, sounding half serious.

"Why am I a woman all of a sudden?"

"I can have a male wife if I want."

John laughed, Sherlock joining in a moment after.

"I thought you said you considered yourself 'married to your work'," the shorter man inquired.

"I am married to my work, but I'll make a special exception just for you," Sherlock said, picking up his cup and taking a sip of tea.

"Coming from you, that's almost a compliment," John teased.

Setting his teacup aside again, Sherlock hummed content. He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, deep in thought. John watched, knowing that the other man was probably working that brilliant mind of his.

"Hm, what are you thinking about?" He asked, bringing two gingers to his left temple and balancing his head to one side.

"I'm thinking, John," Sherlock began, his eyes closed in thought, "How you would look in a white wedding dress."

"...A white wedding dress?" John asked, a chuckle following after.

"Yes, and it looks horrible, go for the tux instead, as a word of advice," Sherlock said, cracking one eye open to glance at John.

Said man bursted out into a fit of laughter, before bringing his attention back to Sherlock. "Well, do you know what I'm thinking?"

"No, what?"

"I'm thinking that the blood you got all over yourself is stinking up the flat and you need to throw out those clothes, after a good scrub in the bath."

Sherlock let out a low chuckle at that, leaning out of his chair and sitting up. He stretched his back and walked across the room toward the hall, taking his harpoon with him. He placed it next to the sofa and spun around to face John.

"I'll take a bath if and only if you promise to come with me to the Yard, I have something for Lestrade," Sherlock said.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. Anything, as long as you just get rid of that smell," John chuckled, crinkling his nose again.

Sherlock smiled at his flatmate and headed down into the hall for his bath, but not before poking his head around the corner. "Don't touch the harpoon," he said, ducking behind the corner and reappearing again, "Nice sweater by the way." With that he left John sitting in the room for himself, glancing down at his sweater, in agreement.

"John sighed, grabbing his newspaper again and reading in silence. He heard the tub faucet go off and chuckled to himself, crossing his legs in relaxation.

"The world's going mad, Sherlock Holmes, and you're right in the middle of it with a bloody harpoon."

In his head, John fancied a thought. Letting his newspaper fall to his lap, John glanced up with a furrowed brow. He produced a deep frown and folded his paper, setting it aside and letting it land with a light thud.

"...He never did tell me what that was all about."

**And that's it! Didn't expect it to be this long but...ah well, who cares? I'm supposed to be in bed cuz its a school night, but I just had to get this all down. It's almost twelve in the morning over here in New York! On that note, I better get to bed, so, goodnight all! (By the way, I still think it was zombies)**


End file.
